On the Range
by Harriet Vane
Summary: Olivia, Peter, and Walter travel to Montana to collect a volatile mineral Walter needs for the lab. But, the mysterious death of five boys twenty years ago, which coincided with Walter’s discovery of the mineral, create unexpected danger.
1. prolog

**This is a completed, 13 Chapter story. I'll post a chapter every Wednesday for the next few months. The story is set between "In which we meet Mr. Jones" and "The Equation." For what it's worth, there are no spoilers.**

**Now for the disclaimers. I do not own the characters or the concepts. Also, I have never been (to my knowledge) to West Yellowstone and all the characters and events there-in are entirely fictional. Finally—and this should go without saying—please review.**

**Prolog**

"Oh, look, buffalo!" Walter said, pointing at the herd, at least 100 strong, that formed a majestic black swath across the white landscape. "Do you remember, Peter, when you were a boy and we were trapped in a herd of buffalo?"

"No, Walter," Peter answered with a frustrated sigh. "I wasn't there."

"Of course you were," Walter insisted. "It was during our family trip to Yellowstone. Don't you remember? We drove the whole way, and went to that horrible place with the free water."

"Yes, that I remember," Peter said. "But once we got here, you weren't around long enough to see any buffalo."

"We were there for two weeks," Walter said. "I remember it distinctly."

"You were there for two weeks. Mom and I were there for four days. After the first day, you disappeared. The second day we spent the entire time in the ranger station trying to figure out where you were. The third day, Mom gave up on you and tried to make the best of it with me," Peter clarified "The fourth day, we flew home."

"Ah yes, that's right," Walter said, as the memory dawned on him. He smiled and chuckled softly, as if he were recalling a family joke. "She was very mad."

"Yeah," Peter clipped, glancing at Olivia as if to say _Can you believe him?_ "She was."

"Oh, and do you remember," Walter continued jocularly, apparently oblivious to how upsetting these stories were. "As I was driving home, how sick I got?"

"You actually got sick?" Peter asked, amazed. "I always thought mom was just covering for you."

"Acute appendicitis," Walter said, chortling. "Three days in a hospital in Sioux City. I still have the scar. Would you like to see?" He started unbuttoning his coat.

"No," Peter said sharply. "We trust you."

Olivia chuckled at the comment. Peter realized she must be in a good mood. When she was in a good mood, she was mildly amused by his interactions with his father. When she was under stress she ignored them. He figured that she was the kind of person who lost her sense of humor when she was stressed. Peter, on the other hand, relived his stress by making jokes. His father noticed, and accused him of being flippant. Peter shrugged that criticism off, noting that at least he was sane.

Peter's thoughts were interrupted as he turned a corner and saw a long line of cars stopped in front of him. "What the hell is this?" Peter asked no one in particular as he pulled up to the car in front of him. They'd turned into a forested area, with high trees on both sides, effectively cutting off the view to the right and left. The semi truck two cars in front of him blocked his view of anything in front of them. "We're in the middle of nowhere. Where did the traffic come from?"

"Maybe it's a buffalo crossing," Walter said dryly.

"There is nothing I hate more then buffalo," Peter said.

"I'll get out and see," Olivia said, opening her door and letting the sub-zero wind whip in.

Peter folded his arms tightly, as if he could hold on to the warmth with a bear hug. "Why did we have to come out here now?" he groused. "Couldn't you wait until spring?"

Walter shook his head. "Why put off till tomorrow what you can do today?"

"Because you can do it tomorrow without catching frostbite," Peter retorted.

"It is a buffalo crossing," Olivia said as she slid back into the car. She shut the door, aided by the harsh Montana wind. "Or rather, a whole herd. About ten cars in front of us."

"So, we'll be here for a while?" Peter asked.

"Yeah," Olivia sighed.

"Oh," Walter exclaimed. "Can we pull over? I have to go to the bathroom."

* * *

To be continued . . .


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Olivia looked, wide-eyed, out her car window into the not-quite-open spaces of Montana, just west of the state line and Yellowstone park. She'd never been there or anywhere like there before – having only flown over the middle of the country on her way to the west coast. She'd always assumed that the middle of the country was nothing but flat farmland. What she found instead was breathtaking. The thick and wild forest seemed so much bigger than those of the Appalachians. The plains seemed impossibly wide and barrenn. The sky, which was currently fully of dark, ominous clouds, seemed somehow bigger. Or, she reasoned, perhaps she just felt smaller.

Walter seemed as enthralled by their surroundings as Olivia was. Peter, on the other hand, didn't seem to be impressed; if anything, he looked at it with disgust and disdain. Naturally, Olivia was curious about his attitude, but she didn't dare ask.

"Here it is," Walter said urgently, leaning up towards the front seat. "To the right. You see the mailbox that looks like a fish?" The old man laughed, "Why a fish?"

"I see it," Peter said, cranking the steering wheel to the right and turning the Jeep Wrangler off of the paved road and onto a long rural driveway.

In the car rental's parking lot, Olivia had thought that the Wrangler looked a little overdone. She was used to east-coast driving: crowded streets, aggressive traffic, tight parking. But Walter had insisted and, like an indulgent mother, Olivia had given in. Now she was glad she had. The surface they were driving on was barely worthy of the name 'road.' It was an unstable mix of slush and gravel zig-zagging up a step hill toward a rustic log cabin. The sedans of the city wouldn't cut it. She was also glad that Peter was driving. She had a feeling her training in defensive and high-speed driving would have been useless.

The road, such as it was, lead up to the homestead of Mr. Wilson. Walter had known Mr. Wilson back in the 80s, but he couldn't remember Mr. Wilson's first name – or, for that matter, if Wilson was a first or last name. However, Walter did remember that Mr. Wilson's property held a very unusual mineral that, he insisted, was absolutely necessary for the kind of work Olivia constantly demanded of him. Of course, Walter was the only one who knew what this mineral was, so he had to go retrieve it personally. As usual, Peter had complained and tried to get out of the weekend in Montana. But, as usual, the necessity of the mission overrode his qualms.

"It will be nice to see Mr. Wilson again," Walter said excitedly, once they reached the top of the hill and Peter put the jeep into park next to a red pickup truck covered by a foot of snow. "I wonder if his mother is still alive. You know, she made the best apple pie."

"I can't believe he remembers this so clearly," Peter muttered, apparently to Olivia. "He doesn't remember abandoning me on our only family vacation but he remembers this guy's mom's pie."

"Sensory memories can be very vivid," Olivia offered as she got out of the jeep.

Peter just shook his head and started following his father toward the cabin. He was upset, and he had a right to be. Olivia wished that, for one moment, Walter could see what his carelessness had done to his son. She though that if Walter could understand, then perhaps Peter could forgive. But not understanding the people around him was, somehow, essential to who Walter was. If he started to understand Peter, perhaps he would lose the ability to understand his crazy theories that always seemed to work. And, if he lost that, Olivia would lose everything and the world would lose one of its last hopes. Still, when she saw Peter catch his father, who'd slipped on the icy stairs leading up to the front door, and Walter not even bother to say 'thank you,' she couldn't help but think that Peter deserved better.

Walter must have rung the doorbell as soon as he reached the porch because Mr. Wilson opened the door while Olivia was still climbing up the icy steps. It was clear, even from the bottom of the stairs, that he recognized Walter immediately.

"If it isn't Doc Bishop," he said, with a cold edge on his voice. "What are you doing here after so damn long?"

"I need to get back in your mine," Walter said excitedly. "My supply of the mineral has been lost and . . ."

"You want back in the mine!" Mr. Wilson said, angrily. Even though he looked to be as old as Walter, if not older, he was a large man, fit and muscular. Olivia had no doubt that, if Mr. Wilson turned violent, Walter did not stand a chance.

"Let me explain," Peter said, stepping between his father and the angry old man. "Walter here is working for the Department of Homeland Security. He thinks the mineral in that mine can help him protect America."

"Him?" Mr. Wilson scoffed. "Government?"

"I'm Agent Olivia Dunham, FBI" Olivia said once she reached the top step. She flashed her badge and tried to smile warmly. "I can see that you are a patriot," she added, looking past through the door and into Wilson's living room. In one corner there was an arm chair and TV showing FOX news. In another corner there was fireplace with pictures on the mantle of young men who looked very much like Mr. Wilson. One of them was in a military uniform, and in the center there was a U.S. flag, folded into a triangle and put in a display case. "Did you lose a son?"

"I lost all my sons," Mr. Wilson said. "Thanks to Doc Bishop."

"How about your mother?" Walter asked. "Does she still make apple pies?"

"Get the hell off my property," Mr. Wilson said.

"There's got to be something we can arrange, sir," Olivia said, trying to appear as respectful as possible. "If you'll let me give you my card . . ."

"If you aren't in that yuppie car driving down my hill in thirty seconds, I'm going to get my gun and fire on you."

"You'd fire on a federal officer?" Peter asked, amazed. "Do you know how much trouble you'd be in?"

"I don't care. Without a warrant you're trespassing. And the law's clear that I have a right to protect my land."

"He's right," Olivia said quickly, before Peter could object again. "There's no use in arguing. Mr. Wilson has made his position clear. Let's go."

"Right," Peter sighed. "Come on, Walter."

"Tell your boys I say hello," Walter started, but before he could get the words out, the door slammed in his face. "I don't know what he's so upset about," Walter protested as Peter helped him back down the icy steps. "I paid them good wages to work down in the mine: two-fifty an hour. And, I had several very pleasant talks with Mrs. Wilson. She'd immigrated from Krakow, you know, back in ought-seven.

"Chatted about the old neighborhood, did you?" Peter asked.

"Don't be ridiculous, I never lived in Krakow," Walter said, shaking his son's arm off and storming angrily towards the car – as if implying someone was from Krakow was an insult.


	3. Chapter 2

"So, now what?" Peter asked, once he'd gotten them down the death-trap of a hill and back onto the paved roads. "Did we fly all the way out here for nothing?"

"You made a wrong turn, Peter," Walter interjected from the back seat. "The mine is to the west of the house."

"We're not going to the mine," Peter spat. "Mr. Wilson hates you, remember."

"But surely, Agent Dunham . . . "

"I'll figure something out," Olivia promised, turning around in her seat to look at Walter. "If we got a detailed map of the region, do you think you could find the mine?"

"Possibly," Walter admitted. "But then, I was never good at maps so many imaginary lines, and so few pertinent ones."

"Damn, it's snowing," Peter muttered to himself as he turned on the windshield wipers. "I hate winter."

"Well, maybe there are other deposits," Olivia suggested. "How did you find this mineral in the first place?"

"The family was staying at Yellowstone, and Peter had forgotten . . . . what did you forget again?"

"It wasn't me, it was mom," Peter said. His voice was tenser than usual, though Olivia couldn't say if it was from the driving or from the conversation. "She ran out of some prescription . . . ."

"Lithium, yes, of course," Walter nodded. "I had to go get it for her."

"Mom was on Lithium?" Peter asked.

"Only for a short time," Walter said dismissively.

"It's a miracle I made it to adulthood," Peter muttered.

"As I drove out of the park to the pharmacist," Walter continued, "I noticed some unusual variations in the foliage. Particular trees of the same species had a significant variant in the level of chlorophyll in the leaves. The green was much lighter, almost white, but the trees appeared to be healthy. I knew this could only be the result of a significant chemical interaction within the trees photosynthesis. It stood to reason that this new chemical was entering the tree through the roots, but these trees were hundreds of years old. It was impossible to tell how far down the essential chemical rested. So, I went into the woods, carefully following the trees that were affected by this particular chemical. When I reached the old silver mine on Mr. Wilson's land, the grass and the dandelions around the mine were white – so you see, it was obvious that the chemical compound affecting the trees was very near the top. It only took analysis of a few soil samples to find the mineral I was looking for," he concluded proudly.

"All the while, mom was beside herself with worry," Peter added.

"A very nice park sheriffs deputy, or maybe it was a park ranger, inquired after me. I explained what I was doing and he assured me he would tell your mother."

"I can imagine that," Peter said. "Mrs. Bishop. The good news is, we found your husband safe and sound. The bad news is he'd rather analyze dirt than spend another day with you and your son."

"Peter, you don't have to take it so personally," Walter scolded. "This mineral could revolutionize the field of chemistry."

"Walter, you found it twenty years ago. If it was going to revolutionize anything, it would have done so already."

"The government kept it under tight control," Walter said. "No one had access to it but Bell and I."

"But," Olivia said, drawing the conversation back to where she needed it to be. "Is there more out there to find?"

"The geological oddities of this area clearly created the unique chemical construction," Walter explained. "There could be sources elsewhere."

"But it's the middle of winter, so looking for white leaves would be pointless," Peter interjected.

"It is also possible that there are sources in other parts of the world, Iceland, perhaps," Walter continued. "But that may take extensive geological surveys whereas, Mr. Wilson has a significant amount on his land and is most willing to part with it."

"Only now he's not," Olivia said.

"I don't see why there is such a bother about all of this," Walter said. "Thirty years ago he was very happy to let me all around his property. He and his sons were most accommodating."

"Yeah, speaking of sons," Peter said. "What did you do to them?"

"I simply paid them to mine the mineral for me. It was not difficult—there was a large cache of it at the mouth of the mine. A matter of three days and I had filled the back of our old Plymouth Duster. Do you remember that car, Peter? We bought it just before taking this trip."

"Yeah, I hated that car," Peter said. "Sitting in the back seat always made me sick."

"That's right, it did!" Walter said, once again chortling at his son's miserable childhood. "Do you remember when you were twelve and I was driving you to party at one of those skating places?"

"Yes, Walter, I remember. I remember every miserable moment in that miserable car. What I don't remember is what's important—why Wilson hates you. It'd be nice if you could try to remember that for us."

"You know, I looked at that car myself. And your mother took it into the shop. But we could never figure out why it made you sick."

"Walter," Olivia said sharply, to get his attention. "Do you have any idea how Mr. Wilson's sons died."

"No, I do not. They were healthy boys. The work was not strenuous or dangerous. They should be fine."

"But they're dead," Olivia finished simply. After a moment of consideration, she added, "What exactly is this mineral?"

"You didn't think to ask that question back in Boston, before we went through all this trouble?" Peter asked.

"I know it's a catalyst," Olivia said, speaking to both Bishops. "And, Walter, I know you think your lab will be more efficient if you have it."

"It is more than a catalyst, Agent Dunham. It is a bridge – from formulas that can't work to formulas that can, "Walter said. "With the pressure you put on me to create complicated solutions in constrained time-frames, it is necessary."

"Yeah, but, what is it?" Peter demanded.

"I don't know what it is, exactly," Walter said with a smile.

"You're a chemist, and you don't know what this rock is made of?" Peter asked.

"I can recite the formula, of course," Walter said, sounding offended. "To put it simply, it is a complicated mixture of carborn-14, calcium-48, a naturally occurring gallium arsenide, with traces of oxidized silicon."

"Gallium arsenide?" Peter asked. "You mean arsenic?"

"Arsenic is one of the trace elements, yes." Walter admitted. "I think that's what affected the photosynthesis."

Peter asked. "You had kids mining arsenic – and you don't know why they got sick."

"It was harmless," Walter said. "There were only trace amounts."

"Are you sure about that?" Peter demanded.

"The interesting thing," Walter continued, ignoring his son's question, "is that the atoms did not bond properly. They are highly reactive."

"Did it ever occur to you that you got sick because you were driving with this stuff in the car?" Peter pressed. "And I got sick because there were still traces of it in the back seat?"

"I suppose that is a workable theory," Walter admitted. "The particles were too dense to be airborne, and of course, we never ingested them. But suppose the gallium arsenide began to take on the properties of the carbon-14. Wouldn't that be interesting?"

"What properties are we talking about?" Olivia asked.

"Probably the radioactive carcinogenic ones," Peter supplied.

"So, we might be able to bring in the EPA. Declare the mineral a health risk and get at it that way."

"I knew Agent Dunham would find a solution," Walter said, with a self-satisfied tone. "She is always so resourceful."

The car fell silent. Peter's eyes were sharp and focused on the road but his jaw was clenched tight. In the best of times he resented his father. But Olivia could see that this trip was stirring the young man's worst childhood memories and resentment was blossoming into hatred. She was struck, for the second time in as many hours, that Peter should have had better. She turned to look at Walter, who seemed blissfully unaware of the pain he had caused, and was causing, his son. He was staring out the passenger side window at the trees on the side of the road, now devoid of leaves. If they'd gone in the spring or summer, Olivia thought, they could have found the discoloration he'd spoken of. They could have looked for the mineral somewhere else. But now the only reliable source belonged to a man who seemed to hate Walter even more than Peter did.

Her thoughts turned to Mr. Wilson and the pictures over his mantle. There had been five photos. One of a group of five men, all wearing waders and holding up fish – a family picture, no doubt, taking on a vacation much happier than the Bishop's. She closed her eyes and tried to reconstruct the picture. There were five men, the oldest was obviously Mr. Wilson, the others were likely his sons. He'd had four sons.

There was the flag in the display case, and a picture of a young man in uniform, a marine uniform. He'd had one son die in battle. That left three sons.

"Walter, how many young men did you have digging up that mineral?"

"Six," Walter said. "They did a very good job."

"Three of them were Mr. Wilson's sons?"

"Yes, and his nephew, and then two boys who lived in the town. All of them, excellent diggers."

"How old were they?"

"The oldest boy was, I don't know, fourteen. The youngest maybe ten."

"You sent a ten-year-old into a mine?" Peter asked.

"He could get into the smallest spaces. He was invaluable. Joey, was his name, I think."

"I can't believe . . ." Peter started, but then suddenly the car swerved the right. There was a horrible screeching sound, like metal on metal, and Peter yelled "Damn!"

The car started spinning out of control. Olivia thought she saw a red pickup truck drive past them, but everything happened so quickly, she couldn't be sure. Suddenly, the spinning stopped, her air bag exploded, and all thoughts about Mr. Wilson and his sons were driven from her mind.

* * *

To be continued . . .


	4. Chapter 3

"You should have turned into the slide," Walter explained to his son as they stood outside the vehicle. They'd slid down a steep incline into a forested area. The right side of the car had crashed against a tree, practically wrapping itself around the old aspen. Thanks to the air bags, they were all fine, but they'd had to climb out of the shattered windshield to exit the car. It was nothing but a pile of junk now; there was no hope it being able to get back to town or keeping them warm until someone found them.

"Dad, we were run off the road by a psychotic pick-up and we crashed down a sixty degree hill. I don't think turning into the slide would have made a difference."

"You'd get more traction," Dr. Bishop insisted. "And this could have been avoided."

"I don't know why I try to talk with you," Peter said shaking his head.

"No signal," Olivia announced as she trudged back to the car. Peter had forgotten to charge his phone, so it was useless. Olivia's phone, which had been provided by the FBI, was supposed to have coverage coast to coast – but when she'd tried to make a call there was no signal. She'd gone walking, hoping to find catch a bar somewhere near, but it was not to be had. They were in the wilderness. "Were there any flares in the car?"

"No," Peter said. "I did find a list of numbers to call in an emergency, though."

"Well," Olivia said, slipping her phone into her coat pocket. "That's useful."

"In that case, our course of action is obvious," Walter said with determination. "We must build an igloo to weather the storm." Upon that pronouncement, he fell to his knees and started working in the snow, whether to clear space for the floor or to start building bricks, Peter had no idea.

"Ok, seriously," Peter said, stepping closer to Olivia. "What do we do?"

"I don't know," Olivia said. "I don't think we should try to get back to Wilson's. Walk to town, I suppose?"

"That's at least ten miles," Peter said, looking towards the east, which was already a dark charcoal gray, while the west was still the color of ash. "How long do you think that'd take?"

"In this weather," Olivia said, looking at the steady snowfall around her. "Hours. We should start."

"We should stay as far off the road as we can," Peter said. "That truck meant to kill us."

"Agreed," Olivia said. "But we should keep it in view. The last thing we need is to get lost."

"Do you have your gun?"

"No," Olivia said. "It's at the hotel. Do you really think I'll need it?"

Peter's only answer was a worried expression.

"We should get walking," she said. "I'll take point, then Walter, you can bring up the rear."

"Make sure he doesn't get lost," Peter said. "Got it. Do you want to tell Walter to abandon the igloo, or should I?"

"I think that honor goes to the son," Olivia answered with a smile.

"Lucky me," Peter grumbled as he walked over to his father. He took deep breaths of the sharp, cold air and tried to swallow his anger. They'd been run off the road, probably by Wilson. Now they were exposed and helpless – and it was all his father's fault. If Walter hadn't been such a jerk thirty years ago, this wouldn't have happened. If he'd been happy with his family, and tried to be like a normal dad for one week in his life there would be no mineral, no furious Wilson, no car crash, and, for that matter, no deep and incurable pain in his chest every time he saw a buffalo. It was all Walter's fault.

But, at the same time, Walter was in too much danger at the moment for Peter to be truly wrathful. The doddering old man was making snow bricks minutes after a vengeful maniac had nearly killed him in a car crash – he was clearly too unhinged to be culpable for his actions. So, Peter had to protect him. After all, Peter understood family, and duty. Peter was better than his father. He wouldn't let something terrible happen to the old man, even though the old man had never thought twice about letting terrible things happen to Peter.

It took a while to convince Walter that the igloo was a bad idea and walking through the blizzard towards town was a good one. Then, once he was convinced, it was slow going. They were walking into the wind, which made it feel like they were hardly moving at all, and Walter frequently wanted to stop and explore some unusual snow drift or broken branch. They'd have to wrangle him back into line and force him to go forward again. After about an hour, Peter was exhausted. He could see his father was exhausted too, and Olivia's pace had slowed significantly.

"We should rest," he yelled, but his shouts were lost in the wind. He took a deep breath and prepared to shout more loudly, but he didn't get a chance. Walter stopped, "Do you hear that?" he asked.

Olivia, hearing Walter, turned and tilted her head "I think so . . ."

"Its sort of like a buzzing," Peter said.

"Snowmobiles," Olivia suggested.

"They're coming closer," Peter said.

"They're in the forest," Walter observed, turning to the wall of trees to their right. Peter and Olivia turned too, and soon they saw them—brightly painted hoods zipping through the snow and the trees. The men riding the snowmobiles were all in heavy snowsuits, as brightly colored as their transportation, and wearing dark helmets. There were four of them in all, and they must have seen the sad group of walkers, because they came to a stop in a semi-circle around Olivia, Peter, and Walter.

"Thank God you found us," Olivia yelled to the four figures. "Our car crashed a ways back and we're trying to get into town."

The snowmobilers seemed to stare at her impassively. Olivia glanced from one black helmet to another, hoping to find some sign of empathy. "Can you help us?" Olivia asked. "We could reimburse you for the gas."

The snowmobiler on the far right took off his helmet. He was a wearing a ski mask under it, which wasn't surprising, but still felt ominous. "Well, I think we can give you a ride. Get on."

"Thank you," Olivia said uncertainly, as she walked towards the man on the snowmobile. She glanced back at Walter and Peter.

Walter was already walking towards one of the middle snowmobiles, a bright green one whose rider was wearing hunting orange. "I have always wanted to try this," he said excitedly.

Peter hadn't moved. His arms were folded across his chest and he was staring at Olivia with a hard and disapproving expression. She paused, then turning to the snowmobiler, said "Could you wait just a sec?"

The man nodded, and watched as she jogged over. Peter thought he looked menacing.

"I don't like this," Peter said before Olivia could start to argue. "I don't trust them."

"I'll admit the situation is not ideal," Olivia said. "But do you really think we can walk back to the town? The temperature's dropping; we're all getting tired. They're offering us a ride."

"A ride to where, though?" Peter said. "We haven't seen their faces. We don't know their names. We don't know why they were they out in the middle of a blizzard."

"They're wearing helmets. We haven't asked their names. And they probably just like to ride around on their snowmobiles after work."

"Or, they haven't taking their helmets of and haven't offered their names so that we can't identify them. And they're out in the middle of a blizzard so that they're tracks are covered by the snow and no one will ever know what happened to us."

"You think they want to murder us?" Olivia scoffed.

"I think someone already tried to murder us and failed," Peter said in a hushed voice. "I don't see why they shouldn't try again."

Olivia considered this for a minute. "You think they have guns?"

"They could have almost anything under all those coats."

"Then," she said slowly, assessing the situation as she spoke. "They could kill us right here, right now."

"Yeah," Peter said, quickly following her train of thought. "Do you really think they'll give us opportunity?"

"I don't know," Olivia admitted. "But they have Walter, and every other advantage. We need to wait and see."

Peter looked over Olivia's shoulder at his father, who was sitting behind one of the snowmobilers, obviously excited about the ride.

"Maybe you're wrong," Olivia said. "Maybe they're just people out for a joy ride who'll be happy to take us into town."

"Yeah," Peter grumbled. "We could get lucky."

* * *

To be continued . . .


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

As they rushed through the freezing wind, Peter quickly realized that they were not lucky. The snowmobiles were not following the road towards town. Instead, they were driving deeper into the wood, further away from help and hope.

Peter considered throwing himself off the snowmobile and trying to find help. It was such a stupid idea that he didn't consider it long. The odds of him landing on soft, snowy ground, and not crashing into a tree or a hidden pile of rocks were slim. Even if he could get off unharmed, it seemed very unlikely that they'd just let him go. He was sure they had guns, and even if they didn't, they could run him over with their snowmobiles. But, even if he was able to hide and escape, he had no idea where to run to. They were in the middle of the wilderness. Granted, there was probably a town, and almost certainly a road somewhere in a five mile radius. But, he couldn't trust his luck with finding it, getting help, and somehow, miraculously, finding Walter and Olivia again before they were killed. He'd have to wait for the snowmobilers to give them an opportunity – to fight back, or to escape. And Peter hated waiting.

After ridding through the wood for what felt like hours, they reached a huge clearing surrounded by pine trees. The clearing seemed to stretch for miles to the right and the left, but Peter could see the forest on the far side. The snowmobiles rushed across the smooth snow, devoid of logs and branches. It quickly became obvious that they were going to a small shed in the middle of the clearing. When they reached it and turned the snowmobiles off, the area was a silent as death.

The snowmobiler who did not have a passenger drew a large shotgun from a side holster on his ride and flipped up the visor on his helmet. Not surprisingly, he was also wearing a ski mask. "Everyone into the shanty," he ordered.

Olivia glanced at Peter, as if to say '_you were right'_, got off her snowmobile and started walking to the little shack. Peter followed, stopping to help Walter dismount.

"Isn't this beautiful," Walter said, looking up at the full moon, which had peaked through the clouds. It'd stopped snowing and the world was white and perfect – except for the snowmobile tracks and the man with the shotgun.

"Come on, Walter," Peter said, guiding his father to the shanty. "No time to admire the scenery."

Walter complied and the entered the tiny little shack. It was only about 6 feet by 6 feet, and it was difficult for all seven people to fit in it, especially with one of them pointing a shotgun. There was a small table, and three stools. Moonlight and the beams from snowmobile's headlights streamed in from the gaps between the wooden planks that made the walls. Otherwise, it was dark.

"What is this place?" Peter demanded. "Why'd you bring us here?"

"Walter Bishop," the man with the shotgun said.

"Present," Walter said, smiling eagerly at his captor.

"You killed my sons – three of them," The man whit the shotgun said. Obviously, he was Mr. Wilson.

"And you killed my son," the shortest snowmobiler, whom Peter had ridden with, said. The voice belonged to a woman.

"And my brother," the largest snowmobiler, who Walter had ridden with, said.

"And my boy, my only boy," said the final snowmobiler.

"For that reason, we're going to kill you," Mr. Wilson said. "But not until you've suffered the way we suffered. Not until you see your boy die in front of you."

"No, no!" Walter said, apparently comprehending the danger for the first time. "I didn't know. It was an accident."

"And your boy will die of an accident too," Mr. Wilson said. "But first, Miss FBI, I'm going to need you to take off your clothes."

"What?" Olivia said, flabbergasted.

"She's not part of this," Peter protested. It was hard, nigh impossible, to keep still and not viciously attack Mr. Wilson. But there was no way he was the only one with a gun. And Peter wasn't going to try a desperate, possibly suicidal attack until it was the only option left. "Leave her alone."

"She's a witness," the woman said. "No one can know what happened. We can't sully our boys' memories by dragging them through the courts, any more than we can allow this injustice to go unpunished. Don't you see? It's the only way."

"I am a federal officer," Olivia said, looking at Peter, as if to tell him _'don't try to protect me.'_ Peter meet her gaze and hoped she understood that he couldn't follow those instructions. She turned to glance from impassive helmet to impassive helmet. "Think about what happened at Ruby Ridge. Is that the kind of legacy you want your sons to have?"

"This won't be like Ruby Ridge," Mr. Wilson said. "Take off your clothes."

"No," Olivia said.

"We're going to kill them anyways," Mr. Wilson said, point the gun at Peter. "We planned to do it somewhere else, somewhere where your friend's blood wouldn't splatter all over you. But if we have to do it here . . ."

"Fine," Olivia said, as she pulled off her wool cap and started unbuttoning her heavy jacket.

The room was silent as Olivia, resentful but helpless, striped. Peter didn't watch. Instead, he looked at Wilson murderously. "You're going to freeze her to death," Peter said, accusatorially. "You're going to leave her here and come back, dump her clothes, say she suffered from paradoxical undressing and died of hypothermia."

"You're not dumb," Mr. Wilson said. "Your father must be proud."

"If he had studied like he should have and realized his potential, maybe I would be," Walter said.

Peter was too distracted by their life-threatening situation to notice his father's goad. "That's torture," he said. "Added to attempted murder and kidnapping. You'll never get out of prison."

"We'll never go to prison," Wilson countered, then turning to look at Olivia, he said. "I said all your cloths! Socks too."

Without thinking, Peter looked over to see how Olivia was doing. Even in the relative darkness of the shanty, he could see that she wasn't doing well. In nothing but her underwear, she was shivering violently. Her skin was bright red and her lips were white. She sat on one of the stools as took off her socks, and pulled her legs up to her chest, trying to keep her meager warmth close and avoiding putting her bare skin on the ice beneath their feet.

"Let her keep the bra and panties," the woman said as she stuffed all of Olivia's cloths in a duffle bag. "This'll be enough to keep her put."

"Fine," Wilson grumbled. "Now, everyone out." He turned to Olivia. "Everyone but you."

"No, no," Peter said, shrugging off the hand of the largest snowmobiler, who was trying to turn him towards the door. "I'm not leaving her to this. It's not going to happen."

"I'm sorry, sir," the largest snowmobiler said, "But it has to be this way." He grabbed at Peter's left wrist, and in the small space, there wasn't any room to dodge him. Pain shot up Peter's arm, and bright white lights exploded before his eyes as screams filled the tiny room. After a few terrible heartbeats, Peter realized he was on his knees on the cold ground, with his arm twisted behind him and at least a third of the largest snowmobilers body weight pressing against his back, pinning him down. After another heartbeat, he realized that he was the one screaming. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth and blinked several times, trying to make his eyes focus. The only thing that was crystal clear was Olivia's voice.

"Don't fight, Peter," she told him. "He can break your arm, don't fight. Just stay with Walter. Protect Walter."

Other voices slowly became understandable. Walter was panicking, "Get off him! Don't hurt my boy!"

Wilson was yelling, "Let's get out of here."

The man on his back was saying very calmly, "Move and I'll snap your arm in half."

The woman was screeching, "Nothin' incriminating, remember. No evidence!"

Eventually, the man pinning his arm dragged Peter to his feet. Obeying Olivia, he didn't fight it, but let himself be dragged out of the shanty.

* * *

To Be Continued . . . .


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

"You know, I've been thinking," Walter said as Peter and he were marched through the knee-deep snow towards the entrance to Mr. Wilson's mine. "Your theory that the arsenic in the mineral made us sick might have some validity."

"I don't think this is a good time to discuss this, Walter," Peter said gruffly, glancing to his left at the armed snowmobiler escorting them.

"You see, it was the nature of your illness that was the stumbling block. I suffered from an acute and almost deadly case of appendicitis, while you only experienced stomach aches and occasionally some vomiting. But, I had forgotten that your appendix was removed when you were six. So, your colon, not your appendix, was agitated by the arsenic."

Despite himself, Peter considered what Walter was saying, "Your colon is about a hundred times bigger than your appendix. It would be irritated . . ."

"But not infected," Walter finished. "It feels good to solve a problem."

"It feels better not to have them," Peter said. Then, added, "I assume."

"That is what was always wrong with you, Peter," Walter said. "You assumed problems were bad. You tried to avoid them instead of confronting them head on, like a challenge."

"Ok, I have a problem for you. You're being marched out to the middle of nowhere, where you'll probably be shot, and your best chance for help is freezing to death miles away in an ice fishing shanty. How do you solve that?"

"Well," Walter said seriously. "I suppose my first question is what is our latitude and longitude?"

"Why does that matter?"

"Oh, you never know," Walter said with a shrug. "It could matter a great deal."

"All right," Mr. Wilson said, interrupting their quiet conversation. "We're here."

Peter's eyes naturally drifted to the area illuminated by Wilson's flashlight. It was a wooden door, little more than a hatch, built into the side of a hill. The door was about six feet tall and two feet wide, with steal hinges and a latch containing a heavy padlock. The female snowmobile walked forward, unlocked the padlock, and kicked the door open to reveal an ominous black hole. Peter couldn't help but feel that he was looking into his death.

"You're going to lock us in there," Peter said. "And let us freeze or starve."

"You'll die the same way our children died," Wilson said. "Screaming in pain."

"No, we won't," Peter insisted. "Because the mineral won't make us that sick. It only affects people who have an appendix. We've both had ours removed."

"Shut up and get in the mine!" the smaller of the male snowmobilers said.

"Ok, ok," Peter replied, grabbing Walter's arm and dragging him towards the mine shaft. "Lock us in, leave us to die."

The snomobilers did just that without much ado. Peter stayed close to the door while Walter wondered aimlessly through the dark space. "Don't get lost," Peter ordered as he squinted through a crack in the door, trying to see if their captors had left.

"I never get lost," Walter answered confidently.

"No, Walter, you always get lost," Peter corrected him.

"That's right," Walter said, nodding in agreement. "That's right, I _always_ get lost."

Peter could tell that three of the snowmobiles had left, but there was still the glow of a flashlight shinning off into the forest. One of them had remained, probably to call the others in case Walter and Peter started screaming in pain.

"So," Peter asked as he moved to another crack in the door, trying to get a better view. "Can your miracle mineral get us out of this, or should we just lay down and die?"

"I hope Olivia hasn't lain down," Walter said. "She must have entered the second stage of hypothermia by now."

"How many stages are there?"

"Three. Then death."

"There's only one guy out there, but I think it's the Judo master. Even if we could get out of here, I don't think we could get past him."

"What did you say?"

"I said that even if we could get out . . ."

"No, before, about the mineral."

"I asked if it could get us out of here," Peter said. "It was a joke."

"You shouldn't joke when we're in such danger," Walter scolded. "We have to find the mineral and coat that door – the door is made of wood, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Good. Coat that door with a thin layer, pile some along the bottom to ensure the undermining of the door's structural integrity. Then, all we'll have to do is light a match and boom."

"Boom?" Peter asked. "Like an explosion?"

"Boom," Walter said excitedly.

Immediately, Peter realized that there were several problems with this plan. First, he was skeptical that the mineral would be combustible, not to mention explosive. But then, with carbon and nitrogen, it at least had potential. Second, if Walter was right and the mineral was explosive, there was nothing to protect them from the blast. Finally, if they somehow survived the blast, they'd be sending partials of arsenic into the air, possibly in toxic levels. But Peter realized this was it – time for a desperate, possibly suicidal attack. It was the only option left

"Ok," Peter said. "How do we find this mineral in the dark?"

"Excellent," Walter said, clapping his hands together. "its natural form is a clay-like substance. It's smooth, containing no imbedded rocks. There are veins of it throughout the cave, on the walls, on the ground, in the ceiling. We'll have to feel for it."

Peter pulled off his gloves, exposing his fingers to the bitter cold. "And what do I do if I find it?" he asked.

"In the summer, the boys were able to dig it out with their bare hands, you should have no problems."

It didn't take long to find a vein of the mineral, and if Peter's hands hadn't been so numb, it would have been easy enough to dig up and smear all over the door at the entrance of the mine. But his hands were numb, and they ached every time he moved his fingers. Added to which, he was starting to feel sick. "It's just like being back in the Duster," Peter complained. "I really, really hated that car."

Nevertheless, Peter worked fervently. He tried to think of Olivia, instead of the pain in his hands and stomach. He thought about the cool and casual way she'd tricked him in Baghdad. He thought of the coy look in her eyes when she'd met him at the hospital and given him his Homeland Security credentials. He thought of the tears she didn't cry when she told him about her stepfather, and his birthday cards. She wasn't going to freeze to death. He wouldn't let that happen.

As Peter dug, Watler arranged the mineral along the base of the wooden door and carefully strung it around the ground to create a long fuse that lead to an outcropping of granite a good twenty yards away from the door.

"That should be enough," Walter said after about a half an hour of work. "Now we just have to light it."

"How do you propose we do that?"

"Oh, I always carry matches with me," Walter said as he pulled a small book out of his pocket. "One never knows when one will need a phosphorus—potassium chlorate reaction."

"Ordinarily, I'd say that was nuts," Peter said, as he put on his leather gloves back on. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally ignite his mineral-covered hands. "But I'm starting to realize that, when the world's nuts, you make sense."

Peter knelt down, lit a match, and put it on the line of mineral. "You may want to . . ." Walter started just as the mineral ignited in a burst of heat and white light. Peter tumbled backwards, into the hard stone wall, temporarily blinded by the flash and the burst of heat. "Close your eyes," Walter finished.

"Thanks," Peter said as he stumbled to his feet. "Wrap your scarf around your mouth," Peter instructed as he pulled his own scarf over his mouth and nose. "We don't know what kind of fumes this will release."

"I don't like doing that," Walter said. "The mist from my breath freezes and makes my neck cold."

"Walter, the arsenic in the air could kill you."

"The explosion could kill me," Walter retorted.

Peter sighed and glanced around the outcropping of rock, to the fuse. It was burning bright and hot, only seconds away from the huge pile of explosive dirt. "Fire in the hole," Peter muttered, as he pressed Walter against the hard rock wall behind them. They were face to face; Walter's back was to the mine wall, Peters to the explosion. It was the closest they'd been, physically, in Peter's memory. And the physical closeness seemed to trigger a desire in Walter for some emotional closeness. "You're a good boy, Peter," he said, just before the explosion.

There was a blinding, scorching brightness, and a wave of oppressive, painful heat. Peter felt Watler's legs give way, but the younger man held his father up, pining him to the wall, keeping him as protected from the blast as possible. A moment later, everything was silent – except for the ringing in Peters ears.

* * *

To Be Continued . . . .


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Olivia was sure she was going to go mad. She'd gone disturbingly numb a long time ago. She knew she must be very cold, because she could see her breath in the dim light and the only sound in the tiny hut was the chattering of her own teeth, but she couldn't feel it. Instead, her entire body ached, as if she'd just run through the academy's worst obstacle course after a night of partying. Occasionally, her muscles spasmed painfully – which was almost nice, in that it proved she still had life left in her. Unfortunately, she didn't think she'd be able to keep that life for long.

At first, she'd tried to keep warm. As soon as everyone had gone, she had carefully arranged the furniture; shoving the table into the middle of the room and using it as a bridge to reach the stools, which she placed against each wall. This way she was able to look out off the cracks in walls to the world around her – but she didn't like what she saw. It was at least a 100 yards to the nearest to the forest. She doubted she could make it. But, even if she did, she was practically naked and completely lost. She knew she wouldn't be able to survive the night.

Not that she seriously thought she'd survive the night in the shack. Her only hope was that Peter and Walter would, somehow, escape and find her. But she didn't put much stock in that hope. It was also possible that someone would stumble across the shack, and she could yell and get their attention. But it was a slim, practically impossible, possibility.

As time passed, moving became more and more difficult. Eventually, she fell off one of her stools onto the ice. She screamed in pain, and shock, and frustration, before she climbed onto the table in the middle of the room, curled up, and determined to stay there until she was dead, or until she was rescued.

Her back muscles spasmed painfully. She arched her back, trying to get them to relax and stop hurting. Miraculously, they did. Something warm was pressing against the small of her back. It worked its way up, to her shoulders, and then back down as John's soft and sultry voice said, "You're so tense, Liv."

"Hmmmm," Olivai muttered as the warmth from John's hands flowed over her. "I've needed a massage for a while."

"You're like a rock," John complained as he started kneading her shoulders.

"I had a tough day," Olivia responded automatically.

"Really?" John asked. "Wanna talk about it?"

Olivia considered her day, and whether it was worth discussing. It'd started early, with a 6:30 briefing to Broyles about the mineral and why she thought it was worth getting. He asked a lot of questions, some of which made her feel foolish, underprepared, and easily lead – but he eventually granted approval. Then, she had to go to the hotel, brief Peter and Walter. It was a trial to get Walter to the airport, and through security, and on the plane, then off the plane again, and through security again, and finally to the hotel, where they could drop off their suitcases. Then, upon Walter's insistence, off to Mr. Wilson's house.

Suddenly, Olivia remembered where she was, and how she'd gotten there. The entire truth of her current situation struck her and, despite the cold, her heart started racing. She sat up and turned to look at John. "You're not real," she accused.

"I don't know what I am," John admitted. "But you need me, and I'm here. That's got to be worth something."

Olivia looked at him skeptically. He was wearing the same dark suite and red tie he'd worn the day he died. In the bare shanty, he looked ridiculous and out of place – though, she reasoned, she probably didn't look much better. "You may think I need you ut you can't help me."

"It depends on how you look at it, Liv," John said, taking a step forward and wrapping his arms around her trembling shoulders. Once again, his warmth washed over her. "It's true that I can't call the police or carry you out of here. But I can put my arms around you, and keep you company. Keep you warm."

"Can you really keep me warm?" Olivia asked. "Or do I just feel warm because I'm dying?"

"I can't answer that question," John said. "And I don't want to think about you dying. So lets'change the subject."

He probably wasn't real, and even if he had been real, she now knew that she probably shouldn't trust him. But righteous anger and suspicion were not comforting, and John was. Olivia shifted her weight, nuzzling closer to her dead lover and his illusionary warmth. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Tell me about our wedding," John said.

"We didn't have a wedding," Olivia said sadly. "You died."

"Yeah, but I wanted one – one with you," John said. "I wanted to see you walk down an isle in a white dress."

"I wanted to wear one," Olivia replied.

"Then tell me all about it," John prompted. "I though girls had this planed out to the finest detail."

Olivia smiled, "You really want to hear it?"

"I'm a man," John said. "I can take it."

Olivia smiled and closed her eyes. In truth, she hadn't fantasized about a wedding. After playing flower-girl in her mom's perfect wedding then watching it descend into the marriage from hell, she had very few romantic notions surrounding the bridal industry. But the prospect of an imaginary wedding was much more appealing than the prospect of contemplating ones own death, so she started to dream. "It'd be on a beach," she said.

"Somewhere hot?" John asked.

"I've always liked the Bahamas," Olivia said. "And we'd be barefoot."

"Casual, I like it."

"I knew you would."

"That probably did it," Peter said, taking a shaky step backwards and letting go of Walter.

"Remarkably effective," Walter agreed. "I assume the door has been removed."

"Oh, yeah," Peter said, nodding. "It's long gone."

Careful to avoid the remaining burning wood and mineral, Peter and Walter walked out of the mine. The devastation was impressive. The opening itself had expanded, so that Walter and Peter could both stand and look at the landscape before them. There was now a dark crater the door had been, and beyond that, steam was rising from the muddy ground around the mine, the snow having instantaneously evaporated. Several of the trees near the mine opening had caught on fire, and were still burning. The man who'd been guarding them was unrecognizable, little more than a charred corpse.

"That poor man," Walter said softly, walking up to the remains of the biggest snowmobiler. "It wasn't supposed to be a weapon."

"Well, considering he wanted you to die screaming in pain, I don't think we need to feel too sorry for him."

"He loved his son," Walter said. "If you had a son, you'd understand."

"Look, I really don't want to waste our time expounding on paternal affections," Peter said. "We have to find Olivia."

"Of, course," Walter said, nodding and stepping away from the body. "Of course – you're right. She had a father, after all, who would not want to see her die."

Peter didn't say anything.

"She's this way," Walter said, walking off into the darkness of the forest.

"But, we came from that direction," Peter said, point back to the tracks in the snow. "We might be able to find their snowmobile and . . ."

"And what?" Walter scoffed, "Drive it? Do you know how?"

"We could retrace our path," Peter continued. "Otherwise we're wandering in the woods."

"Give me some credit, please," Walter said sharply. "With Olivia's life on the line, do you think I would tell you to follow me if I didn't know where I was going?"

Again, Peter stayed silent.

"Just fifty meters west of the mine entrance there is a small creak which flows into Hebgen lake. That must be where Olivia is."

"In the lake?"

"In an ice fishing shanty on the lake," Walter clarified.

"But how do you know?" Peter asked.

"Because I took time to admire the scenery," Walter said. "The land formation was unmistakable . . ."

"Walter, you haven't been here in twenty years – and then it was in the summer. You can't possibly remember . . ."

" . . . besides which," Walter continued, raising his voice to speak over his son. "I saw a dock."

"A dock? For boats?"

"It was a ways in the distance, but yes . . . a dock."

For the first time that night, Peter allowed himself to believe that things might just work out.

* * *

To Be Continued . . . .


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Olivia," John said. His voice sounded desperate, and he was shaking her violently. "Don't go to sleep."

"I'm so tired," Olivia groaned. "Just let me . . ."

"No," John snapped. "I, ah, I want to talk to you about the flowers. I'm not sure about lilies – they seem like funeral flowers."

"I am marrying a dead man," Olivia muttered.

"What about roses? They're matrimonial."

"I don't really care," Olivia said. "It's all imaginary. Please let me sleep."

"Come on, Liv, stay with me," John urged. "We haven't talked about the reception yet. What do you think about 'Rock Me Gently' for our first dance?"

Despite the cold and the pain, Olivia laughed. "We've never danced."

"I should have taken you," John said. "A college girlfriend convinced me to take ballroom dancing for my PE elective. We would have danced the tango until you swooned."

"That wouldn't have taken very long," Olivia mumbled. "I can't dance."

"Maybe we'll get the chance some day," John said, his voice sounded sad as he leaned over and kissed Olivia's forehead. "But someone's about to cut in."

"What?" Olivia asked, opening her eyes to see John, and possibly what he was looking at. Instead, she saw the door to the ice shanty, hazily outlined in the ebbing moonlight. She saw it open. Then everything started happening very fast.

"John?" Olivia asked as Peter pushed her up so that she was sitting, not lying, on the table. Her skin was ghostly pale, her lips were blue, and her eyes were unfocused. But Peter didn't let himself think about that. Every second was precious – every second could be her life.

"He's not here right now," Peter said as he pulled the wool cap off of his head and put it on Olivia. "It's just me."

"Peter," Walter said, as he hovered near the door. "Her feet. It's very difficult to walk with fewer than ten toes."

"Yeah, I know," Peter muttered as he pulled off his gloves and slid them, as far as possible, over her feet so that her blue toes were covered. He took off his scarf and wrapped it around the rest of her feet and up her ankles.

"Now she can't walk at all," Walter noted.

Peter didn't bother to explain that he'd always planed to carry Olivia to safety. Instead, he started undressing in earnest. Throwing off his wool coat, he removed his sweater, which he promptly slid over Olivia's head, pinning her arms against her body for extra warmth. Then he took off the flannel shirt he'd been wearing under his sweater and wrapped it around her legs so that only part of her legs, her neck, and her face were uncovered.

"P-peter," she stammered as the events around her finally made it into her groggy brain. "Where . . ."

"We're going to find help," Peter said as he leaned forward and pushed Olivia onto his shoulder in a fierman's carry. Holding her lets to his chest with his left arm, he was able to throw his wool coat over his shoulder, covering the both of them. With his right hand, he held it closed.

"You should button your coat, Peter," Walter said in his most annoyingly, fatherly tone. "It's very cold outside."

Again, Peter ignored his father. "We'll have to go outside," he told Olivia as he carefully walked out of the shanty. "And it's going to be colder. But I've got you, and we'll be someplace warm as soon as possible."

Even though he'd just warned Olivia, Peter was shocked by how cold it was outside. The wind had picked up, and was blowing the newly fallen snow. Every flake that hit Peter's hands, neck and face felt like little razorblades slicing through his skin. It didn't help that Olivia's cold body was pressed against his, sucking up all of the warmth he generated.

They had to trudge for a half mile through knee-high snow to reach the nearest dock. Walter talked the whole time about the mysteries of atomic motion and the miracle that liquids could become solids. For once in his life, Peter didn't mind. The endless prattle indicated that Walter was, at least, following Peter across the lake.

Next to the dock, there was a loading ramp. Peter trudged up it, feeling feverish from the exertion at the same time as his ears and nose ached from the bitter cold. The loading ramp seemed to lead into a parking lot. There was a thin row of trees between the lot and what appeared to be a long, two lane highway. Once they reached the long, open strip of road, Peter saw something even more encouraging. Less then twenty yards away there was a glowing red neon sign that read "Vacancy."

"Come on, Walter," Peter ordered as he started jogging towards the sign. "We're almost there!"

"Ah, where are we going again?" Walter asked. He sounded short of breath—which meant he was running. Peter didn't look behind himself to make sure.

"There's a hotel right up there," Peter said. "Think of it Walter – hot coffee, central heating, beds."

"Sounds very nice," Walter said. "But I don't think Olivia has her credit card anymore."

"We'll worry about that later," Peter said breathlessly as he approached the main entrance to the hotel. It was a large building, three stories tall and 60 yards wide. It was constructed out of huge logs, and had a sharply tilting roof, which had dumped piles of snow high enough to block the second story windows on either side of the building. There were many windows, framed on either side by dark green shutters but all of them were dark. There was a large canopy over the drive, to allow guests to load an unload luggage comfortably in bad weather. It had sheltered the doorway from the worst of the snow drifts, allowing Peter to stand at the huge wooden doors in snow up to his ankles, instead of his knees.

Letting go of the edges of his coat, he freed his right hand and started pounding on the huge wooden door. "Help!" he yelled, at the top of his voice. "Please, we need help!"

"Shhhhh!" Walter scolded. "You'll wake someone."

"That's the idea," Peter said. "It'd be nice if you could chip in." Peter turned back to the door and continued to pound, "We need help out here! Someone let us in!"

"Help!" Walter said, only fractionally louder than his regular speaking voice. "Let us in please!"

After a minute or two of pounding, a light came on behind the door. It was so bright, in comparison to the fading moonlight, that seeing it through the side windows and the cracks of the door made Peter's eyes hurt. But he didn't wince or look away when the door was opened and a middle-aged man in a flannel pajamas opened the door. "Need a room?" he asked with a yawn.

"Let us in. She's dying," Peter said, pushing past the man and into the large, grandiose hotel lobby. On the right there was a long desk, made out of the same rustic wood as the hotel's façade. To the right there was a huge stone fireplace, surrounded by overstuffed leather couches. At the far end there was a grand staircase that led up to the second floor and split off to the right and the left to reach the third floor. On the left of the staircase there was a bar, on the right, a grand piano.

"We need a warm bath," Peter said as he rushed to the couches and set Olivia down on the once closet to the fire place. She was deathly still and pale as a china doll; but Peter could feel her slow heartbeat and even slower breathing. "We have to get her body temperature up. We'll need something hot to drink too – water, coffee, whatever. Hot and sweet."

"Wait a minuet," the man said as he closed and bolted the huge wooden doors. "Who are you? What's going on?"

"I told you—she's dying," Peter insisted as he wrapped his wool coat around Olivia. "When she's better we can explain, but her core temperature is going to keep dropping until she gets something warm inside her. Please can you just draw the bath?"

"Is everything all right?" A woman asked, emerging from a door behind the desk. "Y'all look absolutely frozen."

"Maggie, this girl here needs our help. Why don't you get a hot bath going in room 101? Then these gentlemen will explain what's going on."

The woman, Maggie, looked wearily between the man, Peter, and Walter. "I'll be back in a minute," she said.

"Thank you," Peter said with a deep sigh, as he sunk down onto his knees, into a lush wool rug, so he could be face to face with Olivia. "Wake up," he begged her softly as he gently shook her shoulders. "Come on, Olivia. We're safe now. Wake up."

"Peter," she muttered. "I'm so cold . . ."

"Yeah, we're working on that," Peter said, glancing up at the man, who was diligently making a pot of coffee in an industrial coffee machine behind the check-in counter.

"Where's Walter?" Olivia asked. "Is Walter OK?"

"Walter's fine," Peter said, though as the words left his lips, he realized he didn't know if that were true. He hadn't heard a peep from Walter since they'd come inside the hotel. For all Peter knew, Walter could have wondered off into the night before the door was opened. He could be wandering down the highway as they spoke.

Momentarily panicked, Peter glanced around the room. He quickly located Walter on another one of the leather couches. The old man had taken off his coat, draped it over himself like a blanket, and promptly fallen asleep. Peter felt a mixture of relief, jealousy, and frustration as he assured Olivia, "He's just fine."

"Are you Okay?" Olivia asked. The blue in her lips was fading into white, and her white cheeks were starting to show hits of rose.

Peter smiled at her, "I'm fantastic."

* * *

To Be Continued . . . .

**Authors note:** You got a reprieve from cliff hangers this week. Don't get used to it.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Olivia woke up to the sounds of Walter's laughter. This struck her as unusual but it didn't bother her. The glowing green numbers on the night-stand informed her that it was 10:36. She rolled over and went back to sleep.

Olivia woke up again. Now the clock read 3:25. Because it was so early in the morning, she tried to go back to sleep, but it was useless.

Feeling a deep sense of cold, despite the layers of warm blankets piled over her, Olivia decided to take a long, hot bath. She reasoned that, perhaps, it would relax her enough to sleep through the rest of the night. She sat up and shuddered as the relatively cold air of the room hit her bare back. But all thoughts of cold were driven from her mind when she saw where she was.

It was a cozy and comfortable bedroom. But it wasn't her bedroom. And, from what she could tell in the dim light, it didn't look like any bedroom she'd ever seen. In front of her there were dark, heavy curtains with light streaming out from their edges. In the corner there was a heavy armoire, the kind Martha Stewart would use to hide a TV. On the left wall there was a large double door – probably leading to a closet. On the right wall there was a small, quaint dresser and a door that must have lead out.

Olivia's intellectual curiosity quickly overruled her apprehension. She pushed herself to the edge of the bed and looked around. Before she could find out where she was, she'd need to be dressed. She quickly saw a large, luscious bath robe folded on the top of the dresser. It had a small emblem embroidered on the right breast. It looked like a moose.

Putting the robe on, and immediately enjoying the warmth it offered, she went over to the window and carefully pulled away the curtain. For a moment, she was blinded by the sun, which was more than usually bright as it reflected off of a landscape covered in snow. She realized that the 3 o'clock on her alarm clock must have meant 3 p.m.

Once her eyes adjusted, she was able to see that her cozy little room was on the second story of a building large enough to have a parking lot. Glancing down at the embroidered badge, she saw that the logo had been a moose, standing on the words Moosewoods Lodge.

The lodge parking lot led onto a long road, and across the street from the road were lines of trees. Through the trees, Olivia thought she could see a huge frozen lake. Chills flew down her spine. She pulled the bath robe more tightly around her, as if to ward off the deathly cold in her memory. She remembered being abandoned in the small shack and she remembered John appearing and keeping her warm – or at least, giving her the illusion of warmth. But after that, things were blurry. She thought she remembered being carried across the frozen lake and lying in a warm bath as Peter forced her to drink cup after cup of too-sweet coffee.

Determined to clarify last nights events, Olivia walked to the door with a mind to finding Peter. Instead, on the other side, she found Walter. He was sitting on a couch eagerly watching what appeared to be CSI on a large flat screen TV. The couch and the TV were in a reasonably sized multipurpose room. On the back wall there was the door to Olivia's room, as well as a small kitchenette. To the left there was a large window with the same view as her bedroom and a dinette set with a paper bag on the table. To the right was an entertainment area, with the TV and couch and a heavy door with a peep-hole and a chain lock – obviously the door to the outside. And, on the far wall, there was a stuffed deer head and two doors, one leading to another bed room the other to the bathroom. Peter was nowhere to be seen.

"Walter," Olivia said as she approached the old man. "Do you know where Peter is?"

"Ah, Olivia!" Walter answered excitedly, turning away from his show to smile at her, then turning back. "I have found the most wonderful science fiction show. The premise is that the laws of science no longer apply and these people must invent quasi-scientific tests to confuse the criminals and make them confess."

"That's great Walter," Olivia said dismissively. "Do you know where Peter is?"

"They work in some sort of futuristic Las Vegas," Walter continued, "where people are constantly being murdered in the most horrible ways."

"I've seen the show," Olivia pressed. "But I need to find Peter."

"They've been playing it all day," Walter continued. "It's absolutely fascinating. And, did you know, they now make toothpaste that actually makes your teeth whiter?"

"Walter," Olivia practically yelled. "Where is Peter?"

"No need to be rude, my dear," the old man said, bristling. "I had every intention of answering your question."

Olivia sighed, "I'm sorry, it's just . . ."

"No, no," Walter interrupted. "It was a very stressful night. I understand. Now, what did you want to know?"

"Peter?" Olivia prompted.

"Ah, yes, he went in to town. He'll be back with our luggage shortly."

"Great," Olivia said, not able to hide her disappointment.

"But he did tell me to tell you something," Walter said. "Now if I could only remember . . ."

Olivia waited, trying not to appear too impatient.

"Ah, yes," Walter said. "He wanted me to tell you he left you a note."

"A note," Olivia said, as a relived smile spread across her face. "Thanks, Walter."

"He put it somewhere," Walter continued. "Somewhere very obvious, so I would not forget where it was."

Clearly, Walter had forgotten where it was. Olivia scanned the room, looking for something obvious. "How about in a bag on the table?" she asked.

"Yes!" Walter responded triumphantly. "That was it. He left you a note in a bag on the table. He wanted to make sure you got it."

"Thanks," Olivia said, walking to the table. Walter didn't respond. CSI had returned form it's commercial break, and the old scientist was hooked.

Inside the bag Olivia found, not only the promised note from Peter, but also a pile of cloths: a white track suite with the hotels logo embroidered on the back of the jacket, a fitted t-shirt with the hotel logo printed on the front, a pair of socks that had Old Faithful knit into the design, and a pair of rubber soled black moccasins decorated with red and white beads. Unsure of what to make of the unusual outfit, Olivia turned to the note:

Olivia,

I know that hypothermia can cause some amnesia, so you'll just have to be patient if I tell you something you already know.

Last night, our psychotic kidnappers locked Walter and me in Wilson's mine, hoping that we'd die of appendicitis, or whatever it was they think killed their kids. We managed to create an explosion and escape, then we found you and ran to the closest building, which was this hotel. The owners, Al and Maggie, are the only other people here. They're very nice and will take care of anything you need. Case in point, Maggie insisted you take cloths from their gift shop. (I didn't know what size your feet were, but Walter did, so try not to think too much about that.) I told them you were FBI and could work out some sort of payment.

I called Boyles as soon as we got here, and he said that he'd send you some back up, but I should also contact the local sheriff. So I'm heading back to town to do that and get our stuff out of the other hotel. I wanted to wait until you were awake, but Al doesn't want to drive after dark on these roads. I'm not sure when we'll be back – before dark apparently.

Peter

P.S. Maggie said you can make any long-distance calls you need to. If you want to talk to her, she'll be in the lobby. Also, there's a bowl of chili in the microwave if you're hungry. If you don't want chili, Maggie will make you anything you do want.

Of all the places to run too, Peter seemed to find a good one. _He has a knack for landing on his feet_, she thought with a smile. With a glance over her shoulder to make sure Walter was still engrossed in the TV, Olivia put down the note, picked up the clothes, and headed to the bathroom were a long, hot shower awaited.

* * *

"I got to go over to the Walmart 'cross town for some supplies," Al said as they pulled up in front of West Yellowstone's Sheriff's office in the middle of the tiny city's down-town. "I should be back in an hour. Figure it'll take you longer than that to sort everything out."

"Thanks Al," Peter said as he got out of the huge 4x4 and slammed the truck's door. The Sheriff's office was a modern building on the edge of town. He realized, as he looked at the sprawling red-brick building with tinted floor-to-ceiling windows and nothing but woods around it, that he'd been there before. He remembered going there with his mother and sitting, and sitting, while his mother cried hysterically and fumed furiously in turns. He remembered a nice deputy letting him into one of the cop's break rooms so he could watch cartoons. Then he remembered driving away and feeling the tension in his mother's voice when she said "Dad's just fine, Peter. We're going to go to Old Faithful without him tomorrow . . . then we'll see." To her credit, she didn't say 'Your father loves his work more then he loves you' or, 'Little bits of rock are more important to him than what you want.' But she didn't have to. At ten-years-old, Peter was clever enough to figure all that out.

Taking a deep breath, the young man walked into the red brick building. To his relief, it was not exactly as he remembered it. The place must have been remolded sometime in the past ten years, because there was neutral modern furniture in the small reception area and orderly cubes in the bullpen beyond.

"Can I help you?" a young woman in a brown sheriff's uniform asked, smiling up at him.

"I need to report a crime," Peter said, not smiling back at the young woman.

"All right," she said, turning to her computer. "What kind?"

"Um, kidnapping," Peter said. "And attempted murder."

The girl turned away from the computer and looked up at him, skeptically. "Kidnapping and attempted murder? Seriously?"

"Do I look serious, sweetheart?" Peter asked, staring down at her with his usual glower.

"I'll notify the sheriff," the girl said, picking up her phone. "You can sit over there. Help yourself to coffee if you want it."

Even though the pot looked like it had been sitting on the burner since 8 a.m., Peter did help himself to coffee. He'd barely gotten any sleep after their last night's adventure. They'd arrived at the hotel just after 1 a.m. and it had taken about two hours for Olivia's body temperature to raise enough for Peter to feel comfortable letting her go off to bed alone. By that time, Peter's adrenalin was so high, that he couldn't sleep. There had been a few fitful hours full of nightmares of little boys dying in caves and charred corpses debating with frozen bodies – but that was cut short when Walter woke up at 7 a.m. demanding breakfast. Reluctantly, Peter pulled himself out of bed and resigned himself to alertness-through-caffeination for the rest of the day.

By the time he'd added enough sugar and powdered creamer to make the dark black sludge palatable, another woman in a brown-on-tan sheriff's uniform had appeared and was talking to the receptionist. This woman was older, easily in her sixties. Her white hair was pulled back in a tight bun and her chubby face was wrinkled and well weathered.

"No need to sit down, young man," she told Peter sharply. "You just come with me.

"These are some pretty serious accusations," she continued as she led Peter through the maze of cubes. "Very serious. I have to say, I'm a tad suspicious of these kind of accusations coming out of the blue, as it were"

"We tried to call the police but our cell phones didn't have a signal," Peter said. "And once we reached a landline, the voicemail said 'For non-life threatening emergencies, contact the Sheriff's office during regular business hours.'"

"Well, we'll set it right," the woman said as she unlocked a door in the middle of an empty hallway at the very back of the building. "In here, please."

She ushered Peter into a room that seemed to be used for questioning. It contained a rectangular table, four uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs, an empty water cooler in the corner, and nothing else. It struck Peter as odd that there wouldn't be a two-way mirror or at least a security camera to record the interrogations. But, he figured that the law-enforcement budget for West Yellowstone was not a high priority, probably far below snow removal and stocking the lake.

"Now, sit down," she said as she closed the door.

Peter did as instructed, discovering the chairs were as uncomfortable as they looked.

"All right then, I'm deputy Duvaise," she said, opening a manila file that she'd carried in from the reception desk. Her voice was distracted as she reviewed the papers in the file and she didn't look up. "I'll be taking your statement . . . I'm sorry, we never got your name?"

"Peter Bishop."

"Right then, Mr. Bishop, first we'll need you to sign this." She put a yellow photocopied paper in front of him. As Peter began to read, she pulled a pen out of her breast pocket and stared at him impatiently.

Peter read:

I (print full name)______________________________ do solemnly swear that the statement I am about to give is truthful.

Signed (sign full name) ____________________________________

"Is this form really necessary?" Peter asked as he began to fill it out.

"Oh, yes, certainly," Deputy Duvaise said as she watched him sign his name. "We couldn't very well take a statement from someone who didn't swear they weren't lying!" she added with a hardy chuckle. As soon as Peter had crossed his T and dotted his I, she whisked the paper away and walked to the door. "I'll be back in a sec. Hold tight."

He did hold tight, but the deputy did not return in a second, or a minute, or an hour. Peter tried to open the door, but it was locked. He banged on the door, demanding to be taken to the bathroom, threatening to piss in the corner. Eventually, he gave up. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen – all he could do was sit and wait.

* * *

To Be Continued . . . .


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"Yes, I know that sir," Olivia said. Every muscle in her shoulder and back was tense with frustration as she tried to explain the sheer insanity of events to Agent Broyles – who had little tolerance for insanity, despite his current line of work. "But I felt a gun would send the wrong message to Mr. Wilson. We didn't want him to think we were invading."

"Perhaps," Broyles said in his usual icy, superior tone. "That was the appropriate impression to send."

"I was just trying to make a civil contact," Olivia said. "I didn't want this to bring any heat down on you."

"At that, you've failed spectacularly," Broyles said. "It almost seems like I should congratulated you."

Olivia didn't have an answer for that, but fate smiled on her and she didn't need one. Through the window, she saw a black SUV pull into the parking lot. "Sir, I think Peter's returned with the Sheriff. If you'll let me confer with him, I could call you back with more information."

"If you must," Broyles said sourly. "I expect and update within the hour."

"Understood."

"And one more thing, Dunham," Broyles said, before she could turn off her phone. "Your back-up should be arriving shortly."

"My back-up?" Olivia asked, bewildered. "Who . . ."

"We're sending up a pair of agents from Billings. They should be there by 7 p.m.."

"Is that really necessary, sir?" Olivia asked. "I'm sure the sheriff's department . . ."

"Federal crimes have been committed, Agent Dunham," Broyles said. "As a victim and a witness, you cannot be an officer."

"Yes," Olivia said slowly, as the idea of herself as a victim sunk in. "Of course."

"I'll expect an update within the hour," Broyles said crisply, and just as promptly hung up.

Olivia hung up the hotel's phone with a sigh and headed to the lobby, where she hoped to find Peter and a host of law enforcement agents. What she found instead was a very worried and bewildered man, undoubtedly Al, standing over Maggie and Walter, who were sitting on one of the large couches, reading a piece of paper.

"This is preposterous," Walter said. "It's not what happened at all. Someone has made Peter lie."

"And you couldn't talk to him at all?" Maggie asked, looking up at her husband with confusion and concern.

"Sheriff said he'd run off – dropped off this paper then walked away."

"But walked where?" Maggie said. "The Sheriff's office is at the edge of town – there's no where for a quarter of a mile, and even then, it's just folk's houses."

"It's what he said," Al answered with a shrug.

"What happened," Olivia demanded as she approached the group. "Where's Peter?"

"They have him again," Walter said. "They'll kill him to punish me."

Olivia didn't dignify that comment, instead she turned to Al.

"As I was saying, the Sheriff says he doesn't know where Peter is. He says that he came in and gave this letter to a deputy. She went to show it to the Sheriff and ask what to do next, but when they returned to the interview room, he was gone. No one saw him leave. No one knows where he went."

"Can I see the letter?" Olivia asked.

"'Course dear," Maggie said, handing it up to the agent.

It was a short letter taking up only the top two inches of the page. It was typed on crisp white paper and signed in blue ink at the bottom.

Dear Sheriff,

Last night I committed a murder and I cannot live with the guilt. My father and I were trespassing on Wilson McKeith's property to steal a valuable mineral. A man on a snowmobile found us so we blew him up.

My father is a wicked man and does not care that we are murderers. I cannot live with the guilt.

Peter Bishop

"Is that his signature?" Al asked.

"Yes, I think so," Olivia said.

"It most certainly is his signature," Walter interjected. "You can see how the letters in the last name, Bishop, are mashed together, as if he doesn't want it to be legible. I've discussed that with him many, many times."

"But this note doesn't sound like him," Olivia continued. "And it doesn't even mention the kidnapping."

"You think the sheriff wrote a false letter?" Maggie asked, skeptically. "Thomas is as honest a fellow as you'd ever care to meet."

"Maybe not the sheriff," Olivia said. "But someone is lying. I think you're right, Walter. I think Peter's in danger."

* * *

The voices grew on Peter's half-asleep mind. At first, they were comforting background noises, but eventually, he came-to enough to understand what they were saying.

"It's not about the killing," a woman's voice insisted. "It's about the way the killing is done. Car's too risky."

"And you think poisoning isn't?" a man's voice said. "Who could get at his food but you? We can at least say he stole the car."

It sounded like Walter was watching TV again. The old man had discovered forensic dramas that morning and, as usually happened with his discoveries, he'd become completely obsessed.

"More than that," the woman admitted. "He was supposed to die like they died. Die in pain. His father was supposed to see it."

Peter's groggy mind managed to remember that he hadn't fallen asleep in the hotel room, where Walter would be watching TV. He'd fallen asleep in a police station after being locked in an interrogation room for what had seemed to be hours.

"Doc Bishop's killed again, you have to remember that," the man said. "Kenny should be here. But instead he's dead."

As Peter's heart-rate jumped about 100 beats-per-minute and his eyes snapped open, another man continued the argument "It's just as right to kill the boy the way Kenny was killed, the way Willy, Mark, Tom, and Zack were all killed."

"I suppose," the woman said, as Peter carefully lifted his head off of his folded arms to get a view of the group. Wilson was there, so was Deputy Duvaise, and a third old man who was short but stout. To look at them, they didn't seem threatening. But Peter didn't doubt they'd do anything and everything in their power to kill him.

As they continued to discuss the logistics of how they would get him in the car, and who would drive the car, and how they'd crash the car, and how they'd make sure the car exploded on impact, Peter searched his mind for options. He didn't have many. There were three of them, but they were old. All things being equal, Peter reasoned he could certainly out run them. But all three of them were standing between him and the door. Wilson was big and Duvaise was armed. Peter would have to be clever.

As he was considering his options, the shorter man glanced over at him. For a second their eyes met, and Peter realized that he'd lost the element of surprise.

"He's awake," the man said under his breath to his co-conspirators. Wilson and Duvaise turned around and found Peter pushing himself up, looking at them with clear, focused, and intelligent eyes.

"Look," Peter said, stopping any threats or lies before they started. "I overheard what you said and, I have to say, you are right. Walter, my father, is the world's greatest jackass. He killed your children with his single-mindedness, and they're not the only ones. He was sent to a mental institution for seventeen years because an assistant died in his lab. Walter doesn't care about people. He cares about himself, and his crazy theories." The three locals stared at him, dumbfounded. They were right where Peter wanted them.

"Which is why," Peter continued, pushing himself casually away from the table and walking over to the group. "Killing me is a bad idea. To start off, it's illegal – but you know that and have clearly come to terms with its ramifications. But, I do think you should know that you haven't killed yet. We were able to Agent Dunham out of that shack before she died."

"You killed Kenny to save her," the short man spat. "Do you think we can forgive that?!"

"The point is," Peter continued smoothly, even though the thought of the black smoking body he'd seen last night shook him to his very core. "Right now, you're in a much better position with me alive than you would be if I was dead. But, the real reason you should just let me go is that it won't touch Walter."

"That's ridiculous," Deputy Duvaise said. "You're his son. His own blood."

"I'm an accident, and disappointment, and frequently an annoyance," Peter corrected her. "If you want to hurt him, destroy that mineral. He loves that far more than he loves me."

"You still killed Kenny," the old man said. "You have to answer for that."

"It was him or Olivia," Peter said, letting some of the passion he felt show in a calculated attempt to elicit sympathy. "I'm very sorry I killed your friend. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. But Olivia – Agent Dunham, was going to die. I know you can understand that I did what I had to do to save her."

"And to save your father," Wilson pointed out.

"If you think I'm some sort of dutiful son, you're wrong," Peter insisted. "I was living the high-life as a contractor in Baghdad – perfectly happy to let the old man rot away in an asylum – when the government decided that Walter's research was essential to national security. They forced me to let him out and they forced me to work with him. That doesn't mean I'm going to commit patricide, but I understand your beef with the old man. I wouldn't stand in your way if you didn't keep putting me in your way."

The group considered this statement. Peter stared them down. He was tempted to continue pushing – but he was afraid that would push them over the edge. He had to seem honest, open – almost unconcerned. If he seemed the least bit desperate they'd remember that he was begging for his life and they wouldn't believe a word he said.

"No," Wilson said after a moment, shaking his head. "No, I can't believe it."

"What can't you believe?" Peter asked. "That the man who killed your children cares more about his own discoveries than people."

"That any man would be so cold to his own son," Wilson said. "It's not possible."

"Wil's right," the other man said. "No man could stand seeing his son die. That ain't how God made us."

"So, you're going to kill me . . ." Peter said, looking from one person to the next, hoping to impress on them that he was a human being, not a means to an end. "In cold blood. Just like that."

"We're sorry, honey," Deputy Duvaise told him with a sad smile. "But your father has to understand. He has to pay."

"No, its fine," Peter said, setting his jaw and letting the sarcasm drip from his voice. "Walter's self-centered mania ruined my life, why shouldn't it kill me too?"

* * *

To Be Continued . . . .


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

At 7:30, the Moosewood lodge received a call for Agent Dunham. When she answered, it was obvious that the agent on the other line was not happy to have been dragged across the state on a moment's notice. Furthermore, it was clear that he was not happy to be working with a woman.

"Look, darling," the agent said condescendingly. "We just got off the plane. I understand that you're set up at a hotel west of town. Why don't we meet you out there, get some grub, settle in, and we'll be ready to go in the morning."

"No, why don't you pick up some drive through, get out here to pick me up, then we can all go to the Sheriff's office and find Peter Bishop before something happens that you'll regret," she said.

"That I'll regret?"

"When I tell your supervisor that you did not take this assignment seriously and, God forbid, a consultant to the Department of Homeland Security was murdered on your watch—yes, you'll regret it."

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. Olivia pressed her advantage. "Now, I expect you to be here by eight. I'll make arrangements with the sheriff's office. This is going to be a long night, boys, so you may want to get some coffee with your take-out. Understand?"

There was another pause. Eventually, Agent Ford muttered, "Got it."

"I'll see you in thirty minutes, then," Olivia clipped just before she hung up the phone.

With a sigh, she turned around with a mind to ask Maggie if she could brew some coffee. But, as she was walking to the kitchen, Walter intercepted her. "Was that Peter?" he asked anxiously. "Have they found him yet?"

"No," Olivia said, trying not to let the anxiety and frustration she felt slip into her voice. "But we'll find him—soon. And I'll make sure he calls you when we do."

"This is all my fault, Olivia," Walter continued. "Peter was right. I should have stayed with him and his mother all those years ago. If I had acted like a father just once in my life . . ."

"It's not your fault, Walter," Olivia said as she put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "There is no way you could have ever known."

"You say that as if cognizance of end-results dictated the morality of the deed. Goodness knows that I have not always acted morally, and occasionally the end-results have justified the means. But not this time. Not if the end is Peter in danger. No benefit could possibly outweigh that."

"When we find him, you need to tell him that," Olivia said. "He needs to know how much you love him."

Walter scoffed, "He would know, if he paid attention. The boy resists the deeper realities as often as he can. He's like his mother in that way."

"I don't mean to correct you," Olivia said. "But, whether or not Peter would know you love him if he was paying attention is, sort of, beside the point. Maybe he needs something to open his eyes."

"You don't know him," Walter said, shaking his head. "What he can be like. I've never seen a person with more bitterness and anger. And I spent 17 years in an institution for people with mental and emotional problems."

"You're right," Olivia agreed. "Peter is angry. And it's going to take a long time for him to let go of that anger. But, I think if you stepped forward and told him how you feel—about twenty years ago, about what's happening now—maybe he could let go of some of it."

Walter looked at her for a moment, then smiled. "You remind me of a bartender I met once in Atlantic City. I don't usually remember bartenders, but she made the best high-balls I'd ever tasted. She had a way of twisting the whiskey bottle with her wrists—it was like magic."

Olivia blinked, startled by the abrupt change of subject.

"I wonder if Maggie could make a highball," Walter said. Then, turning to Olivia conspiratorially, "I'll have to make the PCP last you know—until I can get back to the lab. Alcohol is an inferior drug, but at least it is ubiquitous."

He turned and started walking towards the kitchen. For a moment, Olivia stood still, trying to figure out what had happened. She wanted to stop Walter and ask if he'd understood a word she said—or even if he remembered what they'd been talking about. She wanted to explain to him that it was behavior like this that he had to make up for—it may not be the root of Peter's anger and bitterness, but it fueled it.

In the end, Olivia just sighed again and followed Walter to the kitchen, where she hoped to find some coffee. She'd promised herself she wouldn't sleep until they found Peter, and she anticipated a long night.

* * *

"Ma'am?" a young woman in a sheriff's uniform said, as she touched Olivia gently on the shoulder. "I don't know how you got back here, but you're going to have to leave."

"I got back here because I'm heading the FBI task force," Olivia snapped back.

The young woman looked skeptically at Olivia's inappropriately casual outfit. She was still wearing the tracksuit from the Moosewood lodge because Al had forgotten to get the suitcases and Olivia wasn't going to waste time changing clothes while Peter's life was in danger.

So Olivia was standing anxiously outside of one of the interview rooms, waiting for the people who were not wearing white track suites and who had not been the victim of a violent crime only the night before to come out and let her know what was going on.

Fortunately, before the young woman could ask any more questions, Sheriff Waala opened the door for the two agents from Helena. "Blondie," Agent Ford said sharply as he passed her, heading down the hall to the front of the building. "Confab in the sheriff's office. Now."

Agent Deeter followed Agent Ford, and Sheriff Waala stepped out to close the door on their suspect. "Tiffany, you watch that door and make sure Gladys don't come out, all right?"

"Yes sir," the young woman said, obviously confused by the order. "She in trouble, sir?"

The sheriff didn't answer, instead he turned to Olivia. "Agent Dunham, I think we should talk in my office." He gestured that he would follow her, either as a nod to old-time gentility or because he didn't want her out of his sight.

Olivia nodded and started walking towards the sheriff's office. When they reached it, Olivia couldn't help but smile at the decor. The right wall was entirely was covered with fishing trophies, while the left had a large map of the county with pins stuck at seemingly random places and a bulletin board covered with wanted posters and the occasional child's drawing. The mug on the over-piled desk read "World's Greatest Granddad." It was a claim that Olivia did not immediately dismiss. From what she'd seen the three hours since she'd arrived and they'd started searching for Peter, Sheriff Waala was kind, generous, patient, and methodical. She almost wished she'd been able to meet him outside of work, because she would have loved to sit and listen to his stories about life as a small town sheriff. She had a feeling they'd be humorous and heartwarming.

Unfortunately, the Andy-Griffith-like atmosphere was ruined by her fellow FBI agents. Agent Ford was conventionally handsome, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a chiseled jaw—even if he was a little short. He was also haughty and full of himself. Olivia had worked long enough in law enforcement to know his type. He was going to call her 'blondie' and 'sweetheart' and even 'darling' because he was so self-confident he didn't care if she found this offensive.

His partner, Agent Deeter, was taller, but less handsome than Agent Ford. He was also less attentive, less verbose, and less obnoxious. Olivia knew that type, too. He was a good agent, diligent if not brilliant. Unfortunately, Ford's ego kept Deeter from every truly accomplishing anything, and Deeter's temperament kept Ford from getting the ass kicking he deserved.

"How did it go?" Olivia demanded as soon as she stepped into the office. "Does she know where he is?"

"Oh, she knows," Sheriff Waala sighed.

"Or, if not," Agent Ford said. "She knows who knows."

'Then she didn't tell you?" Olivia asked, looking from one man to the next.

"We certainly caught her in lies," Ford asserted.

"We could get her on perjury," Deeter added.

"The hell with perjury!" Olivia yelled, exasperated. "Where is Peter?"

"She's not going to tell us that," Sheriff Waala said. He sounded heartbroken. "When her boys died, she took it hard. And, when we found Kenny this morning . . ."

"Who's Kenny?" Olivia demanded.

"Ken 'Kenny' Roberts was, we assume, one of your kidnappers last night," Ford said, as if that information was obvious. "According to Duvais, your friend Peter and his nut-job father blew Kenny to kingdom-come."

"Peter told me there was an explosion," Olivia said. "He didn't say anyone died. I thought the kidnappers just made that up."

"Kenny's dead, all right," Sheriff Waala said. "When we found him this morning Gladys . . Deputy Duvais acted strangely. Usually she's the one that calls the family, breaks the news. She's got a good heart that way. But she couldn't. She was beside herself, bawlin'. Wilson seemed off too—distracted. But I didn't think much of it. He was never one to wear his heart on his sleeve."

"But it was more than that," Olivia said. "When he found Kenny dead, he realized that Peter and Walter Bishop were alive. He realized that his revenge hadn't worked and, moreover, he needed to get to them before they got to you."

"Then how did he get Duvais to work with him?" Deeter asked.

"She always was," Olivia said, making an intuitive leap and finding herself on solid ground. "She must have been one of the snowmobiler's last night. That's why she was so upset about Ken Roberts' death—she realized that she was partially to blame."

"That's a big assumption to make," Sheriff Waala said.

"It is," Olivia agreed. "But it's a working theory. What we need to do is figure out who else was in the conspiracy—who else wanted revenge."

"Wait, wait?" Ford interrupted. "Revenge for what?"

Olivia ignored him. Instead, she turned to Sheriff Waala. "Wilson McKeith, Gladys Duvais, and Kenny Roberts—they all lost someone at the same time, didn't they? All of McKeith's sons died . . ."

"Well, three of them," the Sheriff said. "They all got sick 'round the same time. And, Joey Duvais was sick too. So was Tim Roberts. All them boys died of appendicitis. It was a real tragedy."

"There should be another father or brother," Olivia insisted. "Last night, when they kidnapped us, two men and one woman said 'You killed my son', and one man said 'You killed my brother.'"

"Kenny was Tim's younger brother," Sheriff Waala explained. "So that's him. Wilson's wife left him after the boys died. Last I heard, she was in Arizona. And Mary Roberts died last year. So Gladys must have been one of the kidnappers like you said . . ."

"We already established that, Grandpa," Agent Ford said. He was obviously annoyed that he was bringing nothing to the investigation other than his haughty presence.

"Now, there's Luke, Gladys' husband," the Sheriff continued in his slow, methodical tone ignoring Ford's insult and interruption. "And Mick Roberts, Kenny's father. Could be either of them."

"Then we find them both—and we bring in McKeith. Someone has to have Peter."

"Unless he's dead already," Deeter said.

"Don't say that," Olivia snapped. "Thinking like that is not an option. We will find Peter alive, and we will find him tonight."

* * *

Peter hoped that they'd kill him soon. What twenty minutes in a large cave filled with many types of minerals and rocks had failed to do, three hours in a car trunk stuffed with Walter's toxic catalyst had achieved. A sharp, grinding pain had settled in his abdomen. It felt like someone was using a lawn mower on his intestines. He'd long since vomited up the scarce food he'd had in his stomach (a particularly unpleasant processes because he was gagged—though thankfully they had not taped his mouth shut), but still, the convulsions in his stomach caused him to gag now and then, spitting up putrid acid.

And, the pain in his stomach wasn't his only problem. Even though he knew he was running a fever as his body tired to burn away the poisons, he was miserably cold. He'd heard the weather report at the hotel. He knew the night's low was 12 degrees Fahrenheit —and the trunk of the old Chevy Celebrity did nothing to insolate him from that cold. If they hadn't let him keep his gloves, hat, and coat, Peter was sure he'd have frozen to death. But, as his stomach twinged in a new convulsion of pain, he couldn't help but wonder if that wouldn't have been preferable.

Suddenly, the car started to speed up and, muffled by distance and dirt, Peter was sure he could hear sirens. Peter's heart rate jumped, as he realized that he'd be found, and it stayed high as his kidnapper's driving got faster and the old car's engine groaned under the strain. The chase, though high-speed, would not last long. Whatever was going to happen, would happen very quickly.

Peter wasn't sure if he was relived or terrified. _At least,_ he thought, trying to be hopeful, _it'll all end soon._

* * *

To Be Continued . . . .


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

The flight-for-life helicopter arrived long before Sheriff Waala, Olivia, and Agents Ford and Deeter. It took up both lanes of the highway, and its blazing lights illuminated the crash scene. The paramedics had already gotten Luke Duvais out of the car, onto a stretcher, and were taking him to the nearest hospital, an hour's drive north. The State Troopers, who'd heard the APB and chased the old gray car off the road and into a tree, were inspecting the wreckage. Peter wasn't anywhere to be seen.

Olivia bolted out of the car and ran over to the paramedics. The snow was at least two feet high, and her moccasins were quickly soaked through. But she didn't notice.

"Olivia Dunham, FIB" she said to the first paramedic to look her way. "I need to talk to your patient."

"He's not conscious," the paramedic, a large man in his late 30s, answered gruffly.

"This is a matter of life and death," Olivia insisted, following the paramedics as they carefully carried the stretcher up the hill leading to the highway and the helicopter. "He is involved with a kidnapping. He could be the only person who knows where a team member of mine is."

"He was also involved in a serious car crash," the paramedic said, stepping aside to address Olivia while the others loaded the stretcher. "Not only is he unconscious now, but I can't guarantee he'll ever gain consciousness. I'm not trying to protect the patient; I'm just telling you how it is."

"All right," Olivia said, stepping back and allowing the paramedic to return to the unconscious kidnapper.

She turned around and looked hopelessly at the crash scene. Duvais could have dropped Peter anywhere. There were miles and miles of thinly populated wilderness in every direction. Peter could be anywhere, in any state. She had no doubt they'd find him eventually, but she also knew they needed to find him soon.

As she scanned the forest, wondering what the next step in the search should be, Agent Ford's voice cut above the general din. "Where are the keys for this thing?"

She turned and saw the two suits from Helena standing over the trunk of the car, and her mind started racing. What if he hadn't dropped Peter off in some forlorn location? What if he'd still been on his way? What if Peter was right there?

Olivia started running towards the car. In the heavy snow, and wearing nothing more than slippers, it was a very difficult trip. By the time she got there, one of the State Troopers had already cracked open the trunk with a crow bar, and Sheriff Waala had yelled for the paramedics.

"I'm Agent Ford with the FBI," Ford was saying as Olivia reached the scene. "The situation is under control. We have your abductor in custody and --"

Olivia shoved him out of the way and, smiling brilliantly with relief, looked down at Peter.

What she saw wasn't easy to look at. His hands were tied behind his back, and he'd been gagged with a red paisley handkerchief. His whole body looked tense, as if he were in pain, and his eyes were bloodshot and seemed dim and cloudy—far from their usual sharpness.

"We've been very worried about you," Olivia said as she untied the gag. "Thank God you're all right."

"Darling," Ford said sharply. "That's not procedure."

Olivia ignored him, pulling the filthy handkerchief away from Peter's mouth. It looked as if he'd vomited on it, or around it, as the case may be. "The doctors are coming," she promised him. "They'll take you to the hospital and everything's going to be fine."

"Olivia," Peter said softly. She'd never heard him sound so sincere. "You look like an angel."

"I didn't think you were the type to believe in angels," she said as she moved to untie his hands.

"I believe in you," Peter said.

Olivia turned to look at him and, for a moment, their eyes met. The vomit, dirt, and snow all seemed to fade into the background, as his deep blue eyes caught hers. She felt like he was trying to tell her something—something she wanted to know. But, before she figure it out, two rough hands pushed her aside with little more than a grunted "Let us in."

Stumbling to the side, she made way for the paramedics, who quickly had Peter out of the car and onto a stretcher.

An odd mixture of worry and relief filled her chest as she watched them take the stretcher to the helicopter. He was safe—she was so glad he was safe. But he was hurt, too, and, for some reason, that hurt her.

"I'll drive you to the hospital," Sheriff Waala said softly as he stepped up behind her.

"I should probably stay here," Olivia answered mechanically. "Assist with the investigation."

"You're not dressed for a Montana night. You don't even have boots on," Sheriff Waala said. "You stay here and you'll catch your death, to be sure. Might as well go to the hospital."

"Yeah," Olivia said, nodding slowly. "I guess you're right."

"Come on," Sheriff Waala said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder and leading her back up the hill towards the road. "You said Bishop's father was staying with you at Moosewood? We'll pick him up on the way."

* * *

The painkillers finally kicked in about thirty minutes after Peter arrived to the hospital. Before that, everything was either a dream or a nightmare. He remembered, or thought he remembered, seeing Olivia -- but in his memory her hair was streams of golden light and her eyes were deep wells of cool water. He also remembered the flight from the crash site as a horrifying and dark mixture of _Mr. Toad's Wild Ride_ and _Apocalypse Now_. His first encounter with the doctors felt like torture. They ripped his clothes off, pressed down on his stomach (which hurt like hell) poked at his back (which hurt even more) and stuck him with an IV so ineptly that he was tempted to grab the needle from the nurse and do it himself.

But once the morphine drip was going and the drugs reached his digestive track, his mind was free from the pain and he could start thinking about his situation, instead of just reacting to it. He was obviously in the small ER of a small hospital. His bed was surrounded by curtains, as much for his privacy as for that of the other patients. Although, at the moment, he was pretty sure there was only one other patient. Furthermore, he was pretty sure that the other patient had been his kidnapper.

The doctors on the other side of the curtain were clearly worried. The kidnapper was suffering from extensive internal bleeding. They were waiting for an OR to be prepped, but with so few nurses on the night shift, it was taking longer than it should have. Peter realized, rather morosely, that for the second time in as many nights, someone who'd tried to kill him was about to die. It wasn't a pleasant realization.

_At least this time it's not my fault_, Peter thought as he heard the nurses discuss who was going to call his wife. It was small comfort.

Eventually, they must have gotten an OR, because several people started talking all at once and there was the cold metallic jingle of equipment being moved and then, silence.

There was no TV in Peter's small curtained enclosure. There weren't any books or magazines either. He couldn't even see a clock. The only thing he could do to pass the time was watch the IV drip and try to guess how many drips per minuet it was set to -- then try to keep count and calculate how many minuets he'd been sitting there alone. His calculations came to about twelve when a skinny young man with short blond hair and a bright smile pulled open his curtains.

"Oh good," he said as he walked up to Peter. "You're awake."

"Is the other guy okay?" Peter asked.

"Well, we'll see," the young man answered vaguely. "My name is Dr. Cooper. I'll be looking after you tonight."

"Are you really a doctor?" Peter asked skeptically. "Or are you just an intern?"

"I'm both," Dr. Cooper admitted. "But, as you know, we're a little busy tonight."

"It's usually pretty dead around here, huh?"

Dr. Cooper laughed, "Pun intended?"

"Not actually."

"Hmmm," Dr. Cooper said as he wrote something down on Peter's chart: possibly, _Patient does not make puns_.

"So," the doctor continued, looking back at Peter. "You seemed pretty out of it when you came in. But you're looking much better now. Do you have any questions about you're treatment?"

"What exactly am I being treated for?"

"Well, you were in a car crash . . . "

"I know. What specifically are my injuries and can you figure out what was wrong with my GI track?"

"Specifically, you have a nasty bruise along your back and two cracked ribs from the car crash. The Paramedics told me that you were in the trunk of the car surrounded by dirt."

"That I remember."

"The dirt probably saved your life," Dr. Cooper continued. "When the car hit the tree, the dirt compacted, absorbing the impact. Like I said, there is some bruising and a couple of cracked ribs. But if the dirt hadn't been there you'd almost certainly have broken your back."

"That is truly ironic," Peter said dryly. "How about the pain in my stomach?"

"Why is the dirt ironic?" Dr. Cooper asked.

"It's complicated," Peter said dismissively. "Would you answer my question?"

"Ah, sure," The doctor said, turning back to Peter's chart. "There's an unusual amount of arsenic in your blood. We think that's your problem. We've put Chemet in your IV, which should make the arsenic pass through you quickly before it can do much harm."

"Good," Peter said with a sigh.

"We'll do a another blood test, and a urine test in the morning. If the numbers look good, you can go home."

"Something to look forward to," Peter said with a wry smile.

"Until then, I'll get you some water, because you're probably thirsty. Do you think you could keep down food."

"I doubt it."

"Well, if you do get hungry, then just buzz the nurse. Same if you need blankets or anything. Oh, and you'll probably have to go to the bathroom sometime in the night, she can help you with that too."

"Something else to look forward to," Peter mused.

"Now is there anything else you need right now?"

"Uh, yeah," Peter said. "There are some people I need to call. And, when I'm done with that, I don't suppose I could get something to read or . . ."

"I'll ask the nurse about the phone," the doctor said. "But you really should rest. You've had an extremely stressful experience and your body—"

"Doctor," a nurse said, as she stuck her head into the curtained enclosure. "There are some people here to see Mr. Bishop."

"Are you up for visitors?" The doctor asked.

"That would depend on who they are," Peter answered, as he turned to look at the nurse.

"Sheriff Waala from West Yellowstone's one of them. Plus, a Walter Bishop—says he's your father. And an Agent Dunham from the FBI."

"The FBI?" the doctor asked. "I'm sure they can wait until you've rested. We don't want to put you under too much stress."

"If you're really interested in relieving my stress, you should keep my father away," Peter replied. But turning to the nurse he said, "Send them all in."

* * *

The End

(with an epilog)


	13. Epilog

**Epilog**

Olivia returned to the Moosewood Lodge from the Sheriff's office in the late afternoon, as the sun was setting and the big sky had turned golden. She was looking forward to a quick dinner and then a long night curled up in her bed.

The day had started dramatically, pulling Peter out of the trunk of a crashed car and then driving an hour to make sure he was all right. Then there had been another hour's drive south, a quick drop into the old hotel to get the much-missed suitcases, a few, too-short, hours of sleep, and then a series of statements, testimonies, briefings, and debriefings.

Even though Ford and Deeter had to do the truly onerous paperwork regarding the kidnappings, Olivia still had her fair share of red tape. Her first priority was contacting the Environmental Protection Agency and trying to get them to quarantine the area because of a toxic mineral, while still procuring a large sample of said mineral for Walter's lab.

Once that was done, she had to report the crashed SUV and then rent a new one. She also had to deal with the FBI's travel offices; explain why they switched hotels and why she was not going to go through the headache of switching back.

Finally, she had to figure out which of her personal items she could recover from the evidence locker. They'd all been found in the back seat of Luke Duvais's car, and so all had to be entered as evidence. In the end, Ford would only allow her her badge and the cash in her wallet. Everything else, he argued, was easily replaceable. So, Olivia had to go about replacing those things—canceling her credit card, ordering new checks, and calling her sister to make sure she could get another copy of her favorite photo of Ella as a baby.

As if her day wasn't stressful enough, she was in charge of Walter until the afternoon, when Peter was released from the hospital. Even though he was still glued to Spike's week-long CSI marathon, he found time during commercial breaks to call her and ask if she'd heard anything about Peter, or if she knew where he'd put his gray cardigan, or if she was sure Gene would be fed, or if she could bring him a blue raspberry slushy.

But, finally, all of her T's were crossed and her I's dotted. She'd been able to slip out of the Sheriff's office—leaving behind resentful Agents Ford and Deeter—and had made it back to the hotel before it was dark out. The hotel itself seemed to welcome her. A roaring fire in the fireplace and an antler chandelier overhead warmly lighted the large lobby. Even though she couldn't see anyone, there was evidence of life. Maggie must have been cooking, because the lobby was full of the wholesome smell of fresh bread and chicken soup. Best of all, she could hear Peter playing "Masquerade" from Andrew Lloyd Webber's _The Phantom of the Opera_ on the baby grand at the back of the lobby.

"I haven't heard this since junior-high," Olivia said as she walked up to the piano. "I had a girlfriend who was into musicals. She had a picture of Michael Crawford in her locker."

"Yeah?" Peter said, not looking up from the sheet music in front of him and not missing a note. "Is it any good? I've never seen it."

"The hero, Raul, is sort of a pansy, and Christine is pretty dumb. But it's romantic, I guess."

"So, the Phantom of the Opera is not the hero?"

"No, he's the villain," Olivia said. "How can you know the music without knowing the story?"

"I don't know the music," Peter told her. "I'm sight-reading."

"Really?" Olivia asked, walking around the piano to see the music, and Peter's hands flow over the black and white keys. "I'm impressed."

"It's nothing," he said with a shrug. "Mind turning the page?"

She slipped onto the bench next to him, so she could reach the music, and turned the page.

"I'm just trying to keep my mind occupied," Peter continued, not missing a note. "And, with Walter hogging the TV, this seemed like the best option."

"Because there's nothing more depressing than playing solitare when you can count cards," Olivia noted.

Peter laughed, "Exactly."

They sat silently for a moment, as Peter finished the song. He let the final, dark note resound and fade away before turning to her and asking. "Any requests?"

"Any limitations on what I can request?"

"You make a good point," Peter said as he started playing the distinctive and playful first notes of The Entertainer. "I don't take requests."

"You must have practiced for hours when you were a kid," Olivia said with an admiring tone in her voice.

"Yeah, it was an escape," Peter admitted.

"It must be wonderful, being able to lose yourself in a piece of music and . . ."

"Not like that," Peter said shaking his head. "I'm not a musical person. I understand it, I know how to make my hands move to create it, but it's not a window to my soul or anything. It's just . . . pretty noises."

"Then how . . .?"

"When Walter wanted to involve me in his . . . well, in anything he was doing, I could always get out of it if I was playing piano. It was the lesser of two evils."

"Hmm," Olivia said, her smile fading as she thought of what it would have taken to compel her young self to practice the obo. "You must have had a miserable childhood."

"Compared to what?" Peter asked. "So my father was certifiable and performed experiments on me in the garage. At least I had plenty to eat and cool clothes. In fact, I bet half the kids at my prep school would have gladly endured the electric shocks if it meant their Dad would show up at their piano recital. Not that they had piano recitals—because they all got to play sports. Still, the principal is the same."

"So, that's a yes then?" Olivia asked.

Peter played a few notes before he answered. "I don't really think about it . . . or at least, I didn't until you brought me back. It was behind me."

"I'm sorry that . . ." Olivia started, but she wasn't sure how to end it. I'm sorry you have to deal with your emotional issues. I'm sorry that I stopped you from running away. I'm sorry that I forced to have a relationship with your father. None of those apologies would have been genuine. She settled on, "you're having such a tough time."

"Don't lie," Peter said. "You and I both know that what's happening—what Walter is doing, and helping you do—is more important than my desire to forget the sins of my father."

"Forget?" Olivia asked. "Not forgive?"

"Let me ask you something. Could you ever forgive your stepfather?"

"My stepfather hasn't changed," Olivia replied quickly and coldly.

"Neither has my father," Peter said. "He's the same self-centered bastard he always was. It's all about him, what he could do. Growing up, our lives revolved around him and his insane notions. You know, when I was six and my dad said 'Son, lets go work in the garage' he didn't show me how to change the oil or how to fix a toaster—he hooked me up to batteries to see how much electricity I generated, because it had to do with an experiment. That was his idea of quality time—using me. And, when you're a kid, you assume that's just the way it is—you accept it. If you can believe it, when he was sent off I felt guilty because I was such a bad son. I'd avoided my father and his terrifying, painful lab. I thought, maybe if I'd been there for a few more experiments, the lab assistant wouldn't have died."

"Most kids blame themselves for that sort of thing," Olivia told him reassuringly. "They're not emotionally mature enough to realize that they have no control over events that affect them."

"The problem is," Peter continued. "I can't shake the feeling. I thought I'd dealt with it —but here we are, and I'm still the bad guy. I'm the one that says 'Walter, no' and 'Walter that's impossible' and 'Walter, you're insane.' When, all the while he's doing these things and lives are being saved. If this is how it is now, why do I think it was any different then? If hooking me up to a battery today helps us save a man's life, why do I think it didn't then? Maybe he's not the mad scientist I thought he was, maybe he's actually a nice guy. But then, that makes me the crazy paranoid villager marching up to the castle with a torch and pitch fork. Which is ridiculous because I was the kid with the emotionally distant and physically abusive father. Why am I the villain?"

"So, you're mad at him because of how he treated you as a child," Olivia summarized. "But you see the good he does, and you feel guilty about being mad—and, that just makes you more angry."

"Yeah," Peter said dryly. "That pretty much sums it up."

"You know, he loves you very much."

"I know."

"Does that make a difference?"

Peter shook his head, "I haven't figured that out yet."

Olivia didn't push, and let the conversation end there. She listened to Peter play. It was a simple lovely melody that reminded her of black-and-white movies. After a few bars, she asked, "What song is this?"

Peter blinked and tilted his head, it was almost as if he'd forgotten he was the one playing the piano. "I'm not sure."

The both listed for a moment. Then, with a smile, Olivia started singing along "Won't you tell him please to put on some speed, follow my lead . . ."

Peter smiled and added his low, mellow tenor to her not-quite-sultry alto, creating a sweet, smooth harmony.

"Oh, how I need, someone to watch over me."

Peter let the notes resolve on the piano and turned to look at Olivia. When their eyes met, they both smiled, looked away, and laughed.

The End

(Thank you to everyone who reviewed!)


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